This week, I’ve been plagued by weird dreams. Weirder than normal.
Each leaves me feeling very uneasy when I wake up, but the details evaporate as I sit up in bed.
But last night was different. I dreamt I was at a funeral (of someone who is already dead). Asked to mind his enormous and expensive car, I was left outside the church, while the service continued inside.
As happens in the real world, I suddenly realised I needed to go to the loo. I locked the car and went looking for a toilet. I don’t have any recollection to actually going to the toilet, but when I came back, there was a little note to say it had been clamped and towed. Fine: £500.
The panic I felt in my chest was so real.
I then had to go around the mourners with a hat to collect the money as it turns out the car was going to be used as an impromptu hearse. No car, no burial.
Oh, the shame.
I never managed to get the money. The next thing I knew, I was at the wake in a dangerously overcrowded Dublin pub. I was patted on the back and cheered for bringing a bit of levity to the day – lastly by the guy whose funeral I was supposedly at!
I don’t know where to start with this one.
That I can’t be trusted? That I have a tiny bladder? That I find funerals weird and troubling?
Or was it all meaningless cognitive farting while I slept? It’s interesting that I actually remember the details this morning. It was incredibly vivid and a little bit stressful.
The last thing I needed when I had to finish packing for Mallorca, run a practice session for a webinar, have a Skype chat, answer a bazillion emails and go and vote in the local elections.
Yet here I am, on the tube to Paddington, having accomplished everything on my task list for the morning.
And the dream is still quite vivid.